Portrait of a Lady ...Pursuing a Dream
stories, waiting to be unwrapped, one layer at a time.
— Amanda Quick
I saw a painted lady and I bought her. Before you start thinking the worst, let me tell you, ‘painted lady’ is a term used for Victorian or Edwardian houses painted in bright colours.
My adventure began when Melody and I went for a drive out in the country and got lost. We stopped in a town called Winslow to ask directions and that’s when I saw this lovely lady and fell in love. I made an offer the next day.
I suppose anything over two hundred years old is bound to have a history—my empress was no exception. A human arm was discovered in the cellar along with a passageway leading to the city square. So the dowager was both naughty and intriguing. When I found out she was also a lady of the night, I figured I knew everything about her that could be known. I was wrong.
I didn’t know she was haunted.
I lived with her for several months, inhaling her fragrance and getting used to her ways. When she celebrated her bicentennial birthday, I expected creaking joints and even blemishes that makeup alone couldn’t quite cover—but I wasn’t prepared for meeting a ghost.
It all began one rainy afternoon when Melody Bride, my book shepherd cum agent, suggested we take a break and go for lunch. We ended up at a local Chinese restaurant, which served quite good food and then afterward, decided to go for a walk in the rain.
We wandered down a side street and came upon a huge two-storey building housing an antique market. Of course, Melody had to go in and browse.
“This place is enormous, James—it’ll take us all day just to go through it.”My plans for the afternoon were made.
My relationship with Melody is complicated—as I said, she’s my literary agent and personal assistant—but she’s also intelligent, beautiful and sexy. Did I say she’s also my best friend? As you can see, the boundaries between us are blurry and it’s sometimes hard to separate the professional from the personal—but if I can make her happy, I try.
We spend the next three hours picking through stall after stall of antiques and memorabilia. Melody, of course, has to touch everything.
Two items catch my eye. One’s a brass candleholder with a little bell—the ticket says it’s from a tavern and dates from the early 1800’s. Obviously, vague details indicate a murky provenance, but I’m drawn to it and it is what it is.
The second item of interest is a painting of a woman. The portrait depicts a sober faced female in her twenties, with wavy black hair parted in the middle. She’s wearing a white gown. Only her shoulders and head are visible and a light milky haze surrounds her like a pale aura.
The picture’s both prim and ethereal and for some strange reason I’m inexplicably drawn to it and have to have it.
Melody seems surprised and puzzled, but pleased I’ve found something that interests me. She purchases an antique wooden rocking horse and a coal oil lamp. I let her complete the sale and bring the SUV around to the door to load in our treasures.
When we get back to the house, we spend an hour debating the placement of the articles. For some reason, I feel the portrait should hang on the staircase at the landing half way between the main and second floor. There’s a small side table already there bearing a rubber plant and I feel it’s just the place for the candleholder. Melody adds a candle and my little vignette’s complete.
It’s strange when you own a house—there may be some parts that hold a special significance —for example, a turret room, a leaded window, or in my case, a carpeted oak staircase.
I don’t know why, but whenever I stand at the bottom looking up at the landing, I felt transported back in time to the early 1800’s.
It’s an eerie yet comforting feeling and sometimes I stand there for up to ten minutes just savouring the feeling.
The rain continues all night and into the next day—a leaden sky stretching from horizon to horizon. The streets are misty and the distances gray and blurry. There’s no rhythm or patter of raindrops—just continuous, slow, steady dripping.
At noon, Melody drops by and picks up the last two chapters of my latest James Chandler Mystery—The Geo-Cache Murders and then continues on to her meeting with the publishers. I’m left alone in the house with an entire afternoon to kill. I decide to spend it re-reading Dicken’s Great Expectations. I put a log on the fire and settle in for a long afternoon’s read.
The grandfather clock in the foyer is chiming five and it’s dark and gloomy in the house—the only light, other than my reading light, is from the flickering ruddy glow of the fire. I get up, stretch lazily and walk across the front room to turn on a lamp. That’s when my blood freezes.
There’s a movement on the staircase and I look up to see a woman with a candleholder gracefully descending the stairs. She’s dressed in a floor-length, white gown. I realize it’s the woman from the portrait.
I watch, fascinated as she descends softly, like a parachute gently gliding toward the ground. She walks with such sad, deliberate steps. Just before she reaches bottom, she looks up and sees me. She looks startled—I can see her eyes widen with wonder.
We stand frozen like a tableau vivant—our eyes locked on each other and all movement arrested. She’s tall and rigid as a marble statue. As I continue staring, she fades like a mist, resolving into the floral wallpaper of the wall behind.
Melody comes home. I tell her, but she just laughs.
“You must have been drowsy and dozed off—probably were sleep-walking—it’s not uncommon.”
It is for me. I never had an experience like this in my entire life—that is, up until now.
Since then, I’ve seen the lady twice—always on misty, rainy days and always carrying a lighted brass candleholder.
I’ve gone back to the antique dealer and asked for further details about the provenance of the articles, but as far as I can tell they’re unrelated and I’ve learned nothing more than what the tickets already declared.
For some people, discovering a house is haunted is a deal-breaker, but for me, it adds a bit of spice and intrigue to daily life. I wonder if the woman actually lived in the house and owned the candleholder.
As for rainy days—who knows? Maybe spirits need a brooding atmosphere in which to manifest—a special ambience or mood where there’s not enough reality, not enough actuality—where the line between present and the past is easily crossed.
I’m not sure why Fate has brought me and the lady together. All I know is I saw a painted lady and I bought her. Now another painted lady is haunting me.
So, I’m out walking tonight in the rain hoping watery wraiths of lovers past will inhabit the doorways. I’m beginning to enjoy the way mist blurs and drowns everyday reality.
Maybe Faulkner was right when he said the past isn’t dead—it isn’t even past. Maybe it just lingers on and cloaks itself in mist and that’s why rain is so romantic.
But I need a relationship that isn't ethereal and spooky.
And one thing I do know for sure—next time, I go for a walk on a rainy day, I’ll make sure Melody Bride shares my umbrella.
Thank you!